


Of Nations and Mafia

by Lyra_Dhani



Series: Around The World [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Italy needs a hug, Not your typical fluffy hetalia story, Obviously it doesn't end well, The Vongola rules over Italy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 00:16:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyra_Dhani/pseuds/Lyra_Dhani
Summary: Bloody as he was, Italy knew how ugly human could be.





	Of Nations and Mafia

Italy met Giotto when the world was withering away, terror gnawing at his heart and fear ruled his soul. It had been a common occurence among the nations and Japan of all people simply looked at him with pity when he broke down in the middle of meeting, crying over another useless death. Somewhere in his region, a pile of corpses would be found in a corner of the capital, ignored and forgotten.

Giotto was a savior, as well as a criminal. Italy hated him as much as he loved him.

_Vongola. Vongola. Vongola._

The citizen chanted.

Sometimes, Italy smiled at him with affection, playing and fooling around as the world kept spinning and spinning and spinning and-

 _Stopstopstopstop_ -

Other times, Italy cowered in fear, looking down at him in disgust, or spat out curses and insults. At those times, Italy might as well wasn’t a human anymore. He had never been human but before, when he could still smile and laugh and think about pasta all the times, Italy _was_ Feliciano.

Ah, his Giotto. His boss. So bright and out of reach. Feliciano didn’t hate him. He couldn’t hate anyone. But Italy-

“I am sorry, I am sorry.”

Giotto crouched down in front of his bed, looking down in shame, tears running down his handsome face. Italy- _No no no_ he was Feliciano please _don’t_ -looked away, staring at the bright blue sky. Then he turned his face at the mirror in his hand, staring at his bruised face and dark circles under his eyes.

Italy Veneciano hated him. Hated him so much with burning passion.

But Giotto was oh-so-very young. A child playing adult. And even though most of his people feared and hated him, Giotto was a kind person. His hands were warm and he used to make pasta for Italy when the world hadn’t forcibly take his childhood away.

Giotto was a kind a person. Feliciano knew this, remembered the cute child he was before the flame claimed his soul. But Italy, the nation who had faced war and the death itself, didn’t. Didn’t want to know.

His people were whispering _Vongola_ with fear, with pure hatred and disgust and greed and Feliciano drown in these emotion, bathing in blood and soaked in tears. All that left was the empty shell of what used to be Italy Veneciano.

But Giotto was so young at the time, and as he grew older and more mature, the frequent mood swing decreased significantly. Feliciano watched from the sideway as Vongola grew bigger, stronger, almost undefeatable.

People were whispering its name with pride, with growing love, as they felt safe and _belonged_.

“My boss,” Feliciano said, affectionate. “The benevolent sky.”

And Giotto, for all his stoic expression and serious attitude, beamed at him. Still a child in Italy’s eyes and would always be a child.

And then Giotto wasn’t his boss anymore. Someone was taking his throne.

It wasn’t uncommon. It wasn’t the first time something like rebellion and coup d’etat happened in the history. It was something Italy had seen happened to another Nations so many times in the past.

But Feliciano’s heart ached. His human part, which had grown up with the boy, cried and mourned for his beloved sky.

But Italy didn’t cry. He stared at his new boss, emptiness in his heart.

Ricardo was hardly a sky. No he was destruction, destroying everything in his path, tainting everything he touch.

“Like a curse,” England said, taunting. “Your boss won’t have a happy ending.”

England didn’t look like a threat at all, with his bandaged arm and painful-looking bruises. Feliciano flinched anyway, his heart cringed at the sight of his friend hurting and obviously in pain.

And then England looked at him, truly looked at him. When he spoke again, it wasn’t addressed to Italy, but to his true _him_ , Feliciano Vargas. “There’s no saving you, eh?”

Italy didn’t say anything. Feliciano cried, his hand drenched in blood, and Arthur saw it, knew it, but didn’t say anything either.

Arthur was Arthur but he was England right now and it was a battleground they had stepped into.

No one would come to save him.

Ricardo was destruction, not a sky. Vongola had lost its light and it plunged into darkness, bringing Italy down with its bloody sin.

Yet, Vongola grew stronger and stronger and no one could stop it. Eventually, it had become the symbol of power, their name carved in the hidden bloody history.

Feliciano closed his eyes, pretending not to hear the laugh of a madman, the cries of the lost ones. He sobbed and choked and when he looked at the mirror, his reflection was covered with red.

_Save me, save me._

Felicialo prayed every night, the prayer wasn’t his alone.

 _Save, save, save_.

The madman.

_Save, save._

He destroyed everything in his path and Feliciano cried for him, for the loneliness in his heart. England was right. It was a curse.

_Please._

“Stop crying,” Romano said, ever so scornful. “Who are you crying for?”

“Everyone is so sad,” Italy said, crying to his brother’s chest as they lied together side by side. It had been a long time since they slept together in one bed. “It’s really sad.”

He was Italy and he was crying. Ricardo was crying too, even though he didn’t show it. Hiding it all the behind wrath and hatred. Sad. Really sad.

In the end, England was right.

“There’s no happy ending for those who stain their lives with blood,” England said, his eyes haunted. He didn’t say anything about Ricardo’s tragic death.

No one cried at the funeral, so Italy didn’t cry either. He was tired of crying.

The next boss was more quiet, not a madman, no, but still so cruel. A torch passed on going through one generations to another.

Italy remembered them all, even though he didn’t want to, even though his people didn’t even want to acknowledge it.

Eventually Terzo passed the torch to his son, and the torch passed on to his grandson, and it would keep going. Vongola, at this point, was undestructible.

Romano didn’t go outside anymore. He locked himself, didn’t let anyone in. Afraid of his own shadow, of his own people. When Italy arrived to his door, Sicily had become a dead city. Romano pulled him close, squeezing. He didn’t cry, neither did Italy, but that only made it all the more sad, wasn’t it?

“The sin,” Romano sobbed. “Let’s destroy it.”

Italy shook his head. “It’s our sin. We can’t.”

 _“There’s no saving you, eh?”_ England had said. That day, his eyes didn’t reflect pity. The clear green eyes had looked empty, instead. Just like Romano’s eyes right now.

And Feliciano hated it. Hated it so much.

Italy laughed, a ghost of madman in his voice. Feliciano cried until he tasted blood in his throat.

Romano stared at him. Romano, his southern counterpart, was broken.

Lavino Vargas, his wonderful brother, was dead.

Italy laughed louder.

Feliciano Vargas was probably dead as well.

The torch, _Vongola’s bloody sin_ , was passed down.

Terzo. Quarto. Quinto.

_“There’s no happy ending-“_

Simora. Fabio. Daniela.

_“-for those who stain their lives with blood.”_

All died tragically. Their lives reflecting the ugly nature of humankind.

Deception. Manipulation.

Backstabbing. Murdering.

Greed. Envy.

Italy shivered as he draped blanket over himself. His whole body felt cold. Timoteo, his current boss, was mourning.

Three deaths. One throne. Seven rings.

Feliciano (not dead, never quite dead) cried with him, cooking him pasta and sung a lullaby for him. Feliciano liked Timoteo.

Cruel and kind. Selfish and passionate. Foolish and wise. Timoteo hugged Italy like he was everything.

“My friend,” Timoteo stated, firm and gentle. “You’re my friend, Italy.”

It had been a long time since a human treated him as a person instead of a throphy. Yes, Feliciano quite liked Timoteo.

The cruel and kind Timoteo, crying over the death of his beloved sons.

Italy, his head draped over the old man’s lap, asked quietly, “What is your decision?”

Timoteo, smiled, a wrinkle in the corner of his mouth. Human aged quickly, he thought absently. Italy felt like it was still yesterday young Daniela introduced her successor to him.

“Can you tell me more stories about Primo?” Timoteo asked suddenly and it was like old time over again.

Italy grinned and recounted the story of a young reckless teenager and his stubborn friends. The wonderful story of friendship and family. Even to this day, Timoteo’s eyes still sparkled like a child, beaming at him with excited smile. His foolish and wise Timoteo.

“I used to tell you that I am going to change Vongola,” Timoteo said, after Italy told him about how Primo and his japanese wife met.

Italy tilted his head. “You did.”

“Perhaps, it wasn’t the right answer.” Timoteo never looked so tired in his life.

An old man in the verge of dead.

Then, whispering quietly, Timoteo made his decision.

Timoteo was kind, but he was also very cruel, thus when he spoke of one name, Italy wasn’t really surprised.

Sawada Tsunayoshi. Fourteen years old. The sky bearer.

The sky. He was the sky. Italy knew right away. This kid, young and naive, would be his sky.

 Japan wasn’t pleased with this. Their relationship had been bad ever since Vongola had threaten him before. Now that the the battle of the ring happened in his home, he was almost downright hostile.

Unlike England, Japan wasn’t as forgiving. He was calm and powerful but Kiku Honda was a just a shy man. Delicate. Hurting him was easy.

England might be brash and hot-headed but Arthur Kirkland was a great man who knew everything and had seen too much. He knew the taste of despair, had made so many nations tasted it themselves.

It was England who taunted Italy with bandaged arm and bruised face. It was Arthur Kirkland who had seen through Feliciano’s mask and cracked it.

The same Arthur Kirkland who kicked China in the face. Arthur Kirkland who beat up Franch and got beaten up in return. Arthur Kirkland who fought with Netherland to conquer Southeast Asia.

Arthur Kirkland was a great man but he wasn’t kind.

That was fine. Italy and Japan weren’t kind either. Neither was Timoteo.

But Sawada Tsunayoshi was kind. The sky bearer.

And when they first met, Sawada Tsunayoshi looked up at him with fierce determination, the flame burning in his eyes. It was the same flame which had Italy drawn to Giotto.

And Feliciano Vargas, for the first time in what felt like forever, smiled.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of making this into a multi chapter fic like the first part, but I am worried I'll just end up leave it hanging, so here it ends.


End file.
